I recover honey samples from the bright-eyed bees
who hug their hives and kiss the cells with floral lips.
The keeper of the combs will pick scents –
infused with lavender, sage, nutmeg
Sweet, but not impure
Sticky, but not messy
Golden, rich and all of the above.
The keeper of the combs weds himself
to the bees.
He won’t ever lift the veil
until the day is over and the sun drips around the planet
veiling and unveiling dusk.
Once, the fish swam in the night sky –
a galaxy inside her belly.
She bore stars and pushed out tears, recalling
The angry cycle of mourning the living.
I had the chance to talk with her,
a chance to travel around her galaxy.
I saw the cycle churning,
filling and unfilling her fists,
palms milk white.
I felt the pain safely escape away
from her memory, from the dark house.
Although she lost the tears,
the memory of it twinkles.
Dead and alive in her sky.
Astronomers attach no name to that time,
That spiral pattern.
That place ejected from her insides.
I looked at the fish finding his way in the night.
He broke out and fell
into a motion you’ll remember as no accident.
You felt it coming. The pale wind
reaching for him.
You have made a Jackson Pollock
I am afraid
I don’t understand
your design –
I only see a colorful web
and trail of tears.
I want you back
Where desert meets ocean, dust and heat
become beached, on the edge of Senyca
Where beets and carrots grow
in the colors of women’s beads.